NEZRIM...PART TWO: MEMORIES

Taut muscles straining against the thick leather straps that bound him, like a crazed animal to Scorpious’s velvet chair.

A sebacean prisoner, with greasy lice-ridden hair, a fetid ensemble of rags littered his dirt-blackened frame. Deep violet eyes reflected years of torment. The lacerations from a whip on his back oozing rivulets of red-yellowish puss, distended purple bruises, vivid. The bitter metallic taste of his own blood, the malevolent cackling of the guards as they watched him. Vulnerable. Writhing in agony. Taking pleasure from his weakness.

“Proceed!”.

The prisoner spat angrily in Niem’s face. His saliva dribbling in a thin white river down her cheek.

“Trekash! Nor!”, he roared, eyes smouldering.

She wiped the saliva away with the back of her hand, gently, rigidly, she placed the hypoderm (syringe) she held, in a safe position. Eye’s narrowing.

“Trekash Nor!”, he erupted his face contorted.

Niem ran her fingertips over the strap that cut across his throat, securing his head to the bolster of the chair. Her nimble fingers came to rest on the buckle. With the gentlest of touch she lifted the guard.

Gazing down at his face, her eyes cold. Methodical.

The strap tightened.

Unbearable.

Ten thousand units of solid pressure, crushed delicate throat tissue. His face knotted, a grimace of puffy redness. Long emaciated fingers, tore relentlessly into the tender-flesh of his palms, hot blood seeped like water.

Tighter.

His body jerking in a spasmodic fit burrowing deeper into the soft padding of the chair, searching for some respite.

Saliva trickling down the corners of his mouth, as it expanded, unsheathing stagnant rotting stumps of cracked discoloured teeth. A hoarse animal whine rasped between coughs and splutters. His windpipe compressed further and further.

Tighter.

Fresh, acrid vomit drifting up his constrained throat, squeezing through the minute gap.

Asphyxia. Strangulation. He gagged.

Niem watched, apathetic, feeling the chair tremble beneath her fingers.

Four microts...five... six...

Bloodshot eyes rolled into their sockets, fleshy pink lids closed over them. His head drooped, his body slumped.

A flick of her fingers and the guard resettled. The strap slackened.

She felt his throat, fingers searching.

A pulse.

Niem raised her eyes looking directly at Scorpious, “Is he dead?”. “Negative sir”, she replied indifferent. “Good...”.

His voice harsh, “I remind you Niem that he is an integral part of our experiment, we are not affluent in test-subjects... do you have any justification for your actions?”, “No sir”. Scorpious sighed. “I will not tolerate a repetition of this behaviour, do you understand?”. “Yes sir”.

He fingered the hypoderm, lifting it from its former resting-place. “ At least we won’t have to sedate him”. “Proceed with phase two”.

She turned to the computer-console that stood adjacent to the chair and its unconscious cargo.

A series of small geometrical shapes, triangular ovals, and elongated diamonds, were arranged in star-formations across its polished black surface. Illuminating blue, red and yellow as she touched them. She tapped the circular centre of the largest star-structure. “Memory probe activated”.
“Continue”.

Scorpious cast his scarran eyes over the prisoner’s still form, watching as a long mechanical arm descending from some dark shadow above the bolster of the chair. With a soft metallic sheen like polished silver, creaking and whirring of steel as it lowered, hovering above their victim’s head.

The arm ended in a clenched robotic fist the synthetic version of a hand.

Four thickened shafts of metal, five hentas (inches) long united with ball shaped joints to four shorter thinner rods, the bones and ligaments of the fingers. Each finger was crowned with three hentas (Inches) of needle thin sharpness.

Niem tapped the corresponding triangle on the console.

The robotic hand relaxed, slowly extending it’s fingers. Silver-slivered claws curved like talons a bare breadth away from the prisoner’s temples. Arranged in a cross formation, the slivers each held a position of the compass, encaging the sebacean‘s head. North, south, east and west.

Niem’s cool voice, “Phase two complete”. Scorpious nodded approvingly “activate the current”. She tapped the console.

A red-mirrored eye in the palm of the robotic hand unsheathed, brilliant blue-white lightning crackled and sparked from it’s heart.

Silhouetted in its unearthly glow, “increase power level to four”, her fingers brushed over the console.

“Increasing... level two... level three”, the current intensified, tiny sparks dancing like gathering fire along the thin metal claws. “Level four attained”. “Proceed”.

The electricity flashed, lightning sparks intensified concentrating at the needle points of the slivered claws. Aflame with the fiery crackle of pure energy.

“Engaging memory probe”.

Power surged. The electricity bounced and ricocheted flickering between each needle point. The prisoner’s head shuddered, quaking beneath the electrical current, as it stimulated the deep recesses of his mind. His neural tissue. Subtle electrical signals from brain to body and back were stimulated, travelling faster and faster.

In the laboratory a huge holographic emitter is in activation mode. Tiny pillars of light ebbing from it.

Twisting, contorted colour shattering the darkness, swelling into a cloud. Swirling, rippling like waves on the sea, the colour receded, bright patterns cooled.

Laughter, the giddy, free-mirth of a small child echoed in the empty walls of Scorpious’s laboratory. He cocked his head toward the sound slightly unnerved. “Enhance”.

The image cleared.

A beautiful cool blue sky, the golden orb of the sun hung in that sky permeating the air with invisible warmth. A gentle wind blew, caressing long blades of grass in a meadow.

A radiant young woman with flowing gold hair, stood in the meadow, holding her plump giggling daughter tenderly in mothering arms. A sad forlorn smile gracing her lips. Her soft grey eyes darkening knowing the coming loss.

A tall sebacean male, with a thick crop of short black hair, let his arms encircle wife and child. He kissed the woman’s brow, his masculine hand gently cradling his daughter’s face, gazing deeply into her little grey eyes afraid he would forget.

She had the same thick darkness of hair on her head, he gently stroked it. “I love you both”, he said, “Always”. “Always...”, softly whispered like leaves blown on the wind.

Hugging them tightly. “Never forget...”, “never...” he said desperately. The edge of tears glittering in his eyes. He kissed the woman sensually. Brushing his lips across his daughter’s forehead. Eyes momentarily closing.

He extracted himself from them, regretfully letting go. His wife gave him one last fleeting kiss. There was no goodbye as his Senior Officer approached, to collect him. The harsh red and black of his attire clashing with the peaceful blue of the sky and the golden glow of the sun.

“Sir." Lieutenant Braca emerged from the laboratory entrance.

Scorpious’s attention diverted from the holo-image. It faded to darkness again. The electrical current eased.

Aware that he had interceded, Braca promptly apologized. “Forgive my intrusion sir, I have important news”. “What is it lieutenant?”. “The Nissassa have arrived”.

“Excellent”.

“They await your audience in the Officer’s lounge”.

“Thank you Lieutenant, inform our guests that I shall be with them shortly”.

Braca nodded and left. Niem raised her eyes.

“Continue with the probing”, he instructed, “Find and isolate any related memories, our subject...”, Scorpious’s penetrating gaze fell upon the unconscious sebacean prisoner, “...has a very interesting past, it could prove useful... record your findings, report them to me in three arns”. She watched his leather garbed form disappear through the entrance.

Returning to the console, Niem carried out her investigation. Reactivating the memory probe.

On Moya....

Chiana stood on Command watching Aeryn tap away at the Command Console, consumed by her usual Peacekeeper efficiency, the insatiable need to keep everything in top working order. Chiana rolled her eyes uninterested by the fluster of activity around her. Zhaan herself was contributing somewhat, helping Aeryn run through several maintenance checks on Moya’s newly repaired Lighting and Cooling Systems.

“Maintenance one complete”, the lights on Command brightened, and steadily dimmed. “Lighting is functioning well Aeryn”, Zhaan spoke, a quiet satisfied confidence in her tone. “Excellent, thank you for your help Zhaan, I wouldn’t have expected technical training to have been amongst the many talents of a Delvian priest”. Zhaan smiled enjoying the compliment. “You are very welcome Aeryn”.

“Oh...quit with the sentimentals, would you!, its making me more Zhaan’s shade of blue, for a Nebari that’s not healthy”, Chiana’s hand touched her forehead, her body arching in a mock swoon.

“Don’t be so dramatic Chiana”, Aeryn said dryly, pure irritation reflected on her face. “Make yourself useful, instead of standing there like a lump of dren, waiting for the insects to burrow into your steaming pile”.

Chiana grinned teasingly. “That was a lovely description of yours truly, I commend your creativity Aeryn”.

Aeryn Sun glared at her. “You are obnoxious”.

“Obnoxious!”, her voice rising.

‘On no’, Zhaan thought, ‘here comes another Aeryn/Chiana argument’. ‘Goddess help us’.

“Officer Sun, please this is hardly the time for foolish quarrels, Moya’s Heating and Thruster Drive systems still need to be checked”. Zhaan sighed gratefully.

Pilot saved the day. “Have any of you seen Dominar Rygel, Crichton or Ka’Dargo?”, he asked. “No Pilot”, Zhaan replied coolly.

* * * * * * * * * *

Rygel sat alone in Moya’s galley, greedily stuffing his oversized maw with the last of Moya’s food stores. The rather delectable green-squared food cubes, piled in a tower on his plate, their slightly acidic taste sweetened with a generous serving of quivering yellow Naolien Jelly. A precious by-product of the rarity Naolien fruit.

Rygel patted his stomach contentedly, “ah, nothing like food in your palate”, “Gluttonous hynerian slug!”. Dargo flicked Rygel’s brow-ridge with an irritated finger. “Ouch!, what in the frell was that for?”.

Twisting his head to see his tormentor, Rygel endured a swift back-handed thwack. “Hynerian gutter swine!, don’t you have any conscience? or does your tiny mind only revolve around yourself?”.
Dargo clearly saw the evidence, the food-cubes, the jelly. He tentatively fingered the plate, scooping a cube lathered with the jelly to his nose. It was covered with a thick Rygelian stink, he tossed the cube away, glaring dangerously at Rygel.

“How dare you strike me!... how...put me down!”. Dargo wrenched him from his thronesled both hands firmly gripping Rygel’s throat. Six feet off the ground with no where to go, Rygel was pinned to the wall. Dargo’s grip tightened painfully on his tender hynerian flesh.

“First you betray us!, now you try to starve us!, your the most egotistical, conceited, selfish lump of dren I have ever met Rygel!, a floating stomach on a throne!”.

“You are not my commander, you luxan imbecile!, I am a Dominar!, I rule the masses!, I am not the ruled!” he spat.

“The only thing you rule Rygel is the dren-heap you were thrown on when your cousin seized power!, You are trying my patience!”.

A soft cough interrupted their argument. Rygel peered over Dargo’s shoulder, “ahem”. All chances of escape abolished. Dargo’s vice-grip tightening.

John watched them both, recognizing this familiar scene, his blue eyes mischievous. “I see you guys need some privacy, I’ll come back later”.

Dargo’s eyes widened in shock. His head turning in Crichton’s direction. “You don’t possibly think that Rygel and I would...”.
Crichton’s face twisted horrified. “Dargo No!, no...” he pleaded, “I wouldn’t think that, come on have a little faith in me”.
The XVI Dominar of Hyneria glowered angrily at him. “How dare you even imply such a disgusting thought Crichton!”.

Dargo and Rygel’s eyes met, contemplating. “Ugghhh!”, a loud exclamation of open revulsion.

“I’m sorry O.K Sparky, I know you’ll both forgive me”, his bottom lip curled in a mocking droop. “Your forgiven”, Dargo remarked.

“Then again Dargo, I wouldn’t blame you, if you and Sparky...I mean its been pretty intense lately, with Scorpious chasing us, with the Crais-Talyn match up...not to mention Staanz the Garbologist and the whole Flax incident...I don’t think superman had this much adventure...I mean Dargo... it can get a little confusing”.

Dargo stiffened, mentioning Staanz had touched a sensitive nerve.

The masculine femininity of the Zenetan flashed into his mind. The suggestion of “Everyone needs a mate Ka’Dargo”, had petrified him, twisting his idea of plausible reality.

Females that had the grim masculine visage. Males that had the sensual feminine beauty, was so diabolically confusing, that Dargo would simply prefer to steer clear of all Zenetans.

He released Rygel, a six foot drop a twice familiar experience for the disgruntled Hynerian. Landing with a loud “Oof!” on Moya’s biomechanoid floor. Crichton’s clever words and sharp wit had saved him from a certainly painful fate.

Dargo pounced on John, “Don’t you ever mention that name again”, he said sternly, a direct warning. Crichton wisely suppressed his cocky smile.
“Sure thing...Big guy”, it barely escaped his lips without a soft chuckle.

Dargo frowned at him irritably, turning on Rygel, “I swore that I’d punish you!, I keep my promises!”.
He seized Rygel’s still floating thronesled, tucking it purposefully under his arm. Rygel screeched, “Release my property IMMEDIATELY!, THEIF!, CRIMINAL!”.

Dargo turned to leave the galley casting one last warning glance at Crichton, he stomped off, muttering under his breath, “damned human...”.

“COME BACK HERE!, YOU FRELLING!...”.

Crichton swiftly cupped his hand over Rygel’s mouth, “Sparky!”, he hissed, “shut your gob!”.

Rygel writhed trying to free himself of Crichton’s barricading hand, the overpowering urge to scream and shout, to ridicule and abuse his nemesis burning uncontrollably within him.

“IDIOT!, LOUSE!, MINDLESS FOOL!”, barely audible half-muffled words drifted through Crichton’s fingers. “Rygel!, COOL IT!, you wanna be in one piece or a thousand?”.

It cut through to his better sense of judgement. His struggles subsided, John sighed.

Removing his hand from Rygel’s mouth, it felt wet and slimy. A sudden unpleasant thought entered his mind, he unwillingly pulled it towards his face. “Sparky, ugh....”, his fingers were covered in thick, oily Hynerian drool. “Thanks alot...”, his face twisting in disgust, thrusting the offending appendage away as far as it could reach. “If this is the reward a good-Samaritan gets, next time I’ll pass”.

Rygel stared at the human. Puzzled, perplexed. They had never gotten along very well, they weren’t friends, merely tolerated each other’s company. Upon first appearances Crichton had seemed the most, frelling mindless, irritating, inept fool he had ever met. Not to mention his incessant blubber about the planet Erp he lovingly referred to as ‘home’.

From Crichton’s descriptions, human’s were pathetically uncivilised, primitively functioning one thousand cycles behind standard technologies. No holo-emitters. No translator microbes, how in the Yahtz did they survive?. Their entire population congregated on one planet. They had only set foot on their moon. (With the exception of Crichton). Rygel couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to live on Erp. The name was definitely nothing to be proud of.

Erpians, ‘Burpians’ he thought creatively, “a discharge of foul-smelling gas”.

Despite all of John Crichton’s weird Erpian Origins, Rygel respected and admired his incredible knack for adaptation, and his uncharacteristic sympathy and warmth. A rare commodity few people had ever shown him. His brow-ridges furrowed, “Dargo would have killed me you know, if you hadn’t distracted him”.

“Hardly Sparky, sure he probably would have strung you up, gutted you alive, boiled you in hot molten oil, skewered you on his qualta blade and roasted you over an open fire till tender”.
Rygel stared at him utterly horrified. “You think so?” he stammered. “If I know Dargo, definitely”.

Crichton smiled wickedly, “Kidding Sparky!, kidding!...”. “You and your pathetic Human sense of humour!, absolutely sick!”.
“Thanks”.

Rygel frowned, “Why did you help me?”.

“Look Sparky, I have had experience when it comes down to ‘Dargo kicking your but’, and I for one did not enjoy it”. He remembered when he and Dargo had first met, being belted down to the floor with nearly seven hundred pounds of luxan on your back was not a pleasant memory.

“I see... but you didn’t answer my question, why did you help me?”.

Aeryn Sun’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Crichton, Moya’s thruster Drive is finally repaired, we’re going to attempt Starburst, Pilot wants everyone to report to Command first, as a safety measure."
he tapped his combadge, “Sure Aeryn, I’ll be on the way as soon as I wash my hand”, “What in the frell?...Just hurry up Crichton!, and bring that Hynerian worm with you!”.
That ended their conversation.

Rygel gazed pleadingly at Crichton. “No way!, Rygel, Dargo was one, but Aeryn... is another thing”.

Defeated.

John walked towards the galley exit. He stopped. “Sparky!”, he commanded. “Front and Centre!”.
“Frell you!”. Rygel hobbled over, working his tiny hynerian legs. Sweat glistening on his temples.

Crichton sighed, “this is going to be a lo....n...g... walk, then again...” he pondered. He suddenly grasped Rygel’s shoulder with his clean hand. Hoisting him up onto his back.
“What in the Yahtz are you doing!”.
“Being temporary transport your highness it‘ll help us get there faster”, Rygel thumped Crichton on the head.
“Hey!, no hitting the donkey!”. They set off down Moya’s tier-way towards Command.

Was this how larger Human’s carried their children?, or was it some weird alien ritual?, either way Rygel didn’t really care, if he didn’t have to walk, he was hardly going to complain.

"Prepare for Starburst".

Moya’s thruster drive powered, blue-light rippled, dancing fire traversing her golden exterior. Aeryn, Dargo, John, Rygel, Chiana and Zhaan, waited for the familiar surge. The soft roar. Dargo cast a wary eye at Rygel, the hynerian wisely stayed away from him. He shook his head, gripping the edges of the strategy table, waiting expectantly for the usual violent pull, that had often dislodged him in the past .

One microt...two microts...three microts...

“Moya has attained full energy”, Pilot’s holo-image flickered.

“Starburst in...”

Moya’s entire structure shook, a violent undulation rolled through her. Aeryn crashed into the rounded edge of Moya’s Command Console, her abdomen burning, she was flung backwards as another shudder rocked through. Crichton screamed, “Aeryn!”, unable to reach her, his hands grappled at Moya’s Console, desperately trying to maintain balance. “Pilot!, what in the hell is going on!!”. Pilot’s holo-image faded.

Dargo was pitched like a rag-doll, his raw weight slamming into Chiana. Flying like a cast line into the far wall. They smashed against the un-yielding metal. Rygel grasped Crichton’s leg like a terrified child. Zhaan’s delicate-blue ringed fingers tore at the cold metal of the guidance console. Several more brutal quakes rippled through Moya, Crichton reached for Aeryn, sliding across the floor. “PILOT, DAMMIT!”.

“Sparky let go!”, he yelled, trying to trudge toward her. Difficult going with the unsettling movement of Moya‘s deck. Aeryn peered up at him, her grey eyes settling on his face.

Dark hair swept into her vision, she was tossed forward. Crichton’s arm swung around her waist, he pulled her towards himself, using Rygel as a steady counter-weight. She was rigid as he touched her, “easy”, he whispered. “You O.K?”, she nodded rapidly. Crichton pulled her in front of himself using his own body as a barrier. Legs spayed, arms tensed, “Hold on...”. Anchoring himself and Aeryn against a further onslaught.

She felt his nearness, his solid frame pressed so close against hers. The warmth. The fire.

‘This is hardly the time for romantic fascination Aeryn!’, she scolded herself.

Crichton felt Aeryn’s body relax slightly, this was probably the closest they had ever been in the last four months. Body’s touching. If only they could get this close in normal circumstances. Then again a leviathan having a seizure was hardly normal.

Pilot’s holo-image flickered into view. Aeryn, relieved that something still worked, called to him.

“Pilot what in the frell is happening to Moya?!”
“It’s Starburst Officer Sun”, he cried frantically, “it’s tearing Moya apart, I am attempting to power down her thrusters”. The violent surges continued.
“Pilot, its not working!”, Crichton shouted.

Unsuccessful. Pilot tried to redivert energy from the thrusters. Nothing.

“Officer Sun, I can not disengage Moya’s power-flow, you must assist me!”.
“How?”
“You must implement manual over ride, it will shut down all of Moya‘s systems”
Aeryn’s eyes widened in horror. “Pilot No!, if I attempt that... it could kill Moya”.

“Officer Sun!”, he pleaded, “Starburst is malfunctioning!, if we do not draw Moya out!, the result will be Molecular Diaspora! (BOOM). You must reactivate everything approximately four microts after shutdown. Officer Sun, I know you would never want to harm Moya, but there is no other alternative, you know what you must do”.

There was no choice. Her face set, fingers flitting across the command console. “Engaging system shut down”. “Aeryn!”, Zhaan called uncertain. ‘If only we had more time’, she thought desperately, she felt Crichton’s warm reassurance.
“Do it”, he whispered. Everyone had heard Pilot’s ultimatum.

“HOLD YOUR BREATH!”. Imputing the last command. Moya’s systems shut down one by one.

Lighting... Cooling... Heating... Atmosphere... Thrusters...

Moya, slowly easing out of Starburst.

Gulping in his last precious mouthful of air. Rygel’s eyes screwed shut, expecting the worst.

An intense freezing cold swept through Moya. Crichton hugged Aeryn close, afraid to release her. Her body curving towards his warmth. Fear reflected in his eyes. Trying not to breath, Rygel grasping his leg tighter. ‘Four... three... two... one...’.

To Be Continued